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April 18, 2008

Tour Blog: Grand Rapids — Ballin’

Written by Girth McDürchstein on April 18, 2008 8:14 AM
Permalink |  Happy Heartland Tour -- The Midwest '08  | Digg It

Staring, entranced, at the hot dog rotisserie in Roger’s Food-Pride, I barked at Lacey over my cell phone: “Well, what the hell do you expect me to do?! They’re threatening to cancel thanks to that fucking newspaper picture. What the fuck kind of publicist are you, anyway? Shouldn’t you be making sure shit like that doesn’t get into the paper?”

“Well, there’s no such thing as bad publicity,” Lacey argued.

“Yes, there is!” I screamed. “When you get shows canceled because of your publicity, that is bad publicity!”

“I’ll work on them,” Lacey said. “We’re about to launch a new campaign to clean up your image. Again.”

“Thank you!” I growled.

I grabbed a hot dog, slid it onto a bun, slathered it in relish, mustard, cheese, chili, and bacon, then paid the clerk and took it outside. I sat down on the curb to eat when a kid who couldn’t have been older than 12 came up to me. He had a skateboard in one hand and an awesome bandanna tied around his head.

“Sup, little dude?” I asked.

“I couldn’t help overhearing your problem,” the kid said. “You’re Girth McDürchstein, right?”

“Legendary rock star Girth McDürchstein,” I corrected.

“Whatever. My name’s Phil,” he said. “I used to hang out at the Ball Center—go Ballin’ is what we call it. I can help you get on their good side.”

“Really?” I said.

“Sure, man. It’s no problem. We’ve all been looking forward to the show. It’s way cooler to have a real rock star here than some lame Peter, Paul and Mary wannabes.”

“That’s true,” I agreed.

“Yeah,” he said, “so all you gotta do is know the secret handshake.”

“What secret handshake?”

“I’ll teach you, but…” He nodded his head around the side of the convenience mart. “We should go around back. Away from prying eyes.”

I nodded and followed him behind the convenience store. There, he spent 30 minutes teaching me an impossibly complex handshake that ended with a hard shoulder-punch, which he kept insisting was affectionate. My bruising said otherwise.

When I finally got it, Phil said, “Just go Ballin’, talk to the lady who runs it, shake her hand like that, and you’re in!”

“Okay,” I said.

“Just remember to punch as hard as you can. If you pull your punch, she’ll get suspicious,” Phil added. “She’ll think you aren’t a real Baller.”

“I am a real Baller!” I said. “In more ways than one!”

“I know you are, buddy. That’s why I’m coaching you. Now, wash the chili off your hands and get back there!”

I obeyed Phil, first washing my hands in a disgusting, gas-station sink that almost made my hands feel dirtier, then crossing the street back to the John Ball Teen Center.

I stormed past the receptionist, shouting behind me, “I need to see Claire again!”

The receptionist didn’t care enough to stop me.

I pounded on Claire’s door as I shoved it open.

“Well, Claire,” I said to the fat troll parked behind the desk, “it seems we’re at an impasse.”

“Actually,” Claire said, “I just got off the phone with your manager—”

“She’s a publicist!” I roared. “Nobody manages Girth McDürchstein—”

“—and I’ve agreed to let you—”

“I want to shake your hand!” I yelled, plowing it forward.

“Oh…kay,” Claire said, faking bewilderment for what she assumed was my ignorance.

I shook her hand exactly as request: double-pump followed by the stray finger (that’s where you waggle the finger against the other person’s palm like so many glory-hole cocks), moved on to the finger-grip, snap back, fist bump, then cover her closed fist with both of my hands, shook it hard, rubbed my pelvis against hers, breathed heavily, let go of her fist long enough to muss her hair, then back to the hands for a deep soul-shake, and finally, the coup de grí¢ce—the impossibly hard shoulder punch, which rocked her so far back she slammed against the wall.

“Well…?” I said, eager with anticipation.

“Mr. McDürchstein!” she exclaimed in a haughty, flummoxed way, like a wealthy, matronly woman in a 1930s screwball comedy. “I’m afraid you leave me little choice but to have you arrested for assault.”

“But—”

“I will drop the charges if you promise to leave town immediately!”

“If I take the charge and get out on bail, can we still play tonight?”

“No!”

I sighed. “I guess we’ll leave. Sorry.”

I felt so much rage at getting fucked over by Phil. On my way down the front steps of the teen center, I caught sight of him and his friends snickering around the corner. As soon as they saw me spot them, all three took off on their skateboards. I knew I’d never catch them.

I glumly walked back to the motel to break the bad news to the band. They seemed pretty relieved, actually. The hotel I chose was seedier than usual, and they were having a hard time with all the prostitutes and drug dealers hanging around.